


In the Absence of Sun (The Grief Inside Your Bones)

by Elizabeth Culmer (edenfalling)



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Alcohol, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Multi, Oral Sex, Post-Series, Remix, Sex, Threesome - F/F/M, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-05
Updated: 2014-05-05
Packaged: 2018-01-22 00:19:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1569125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edenfalling/pseuds/Elizabeth%20Culmer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Buffy goes to LA after Angel's private little war.  Faith trails her like a dark mirror, chasing her own demons and debts.  Neither expects to run into Wesley.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Absence of Sun (The Grief Inside Your Bones)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [templemarker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/templemarker/gifts).
  * Inspired by [In the Absence of Sun](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/48470) by templemarker. 



> This story is based on television canon only. I have not read any of the comics continuations for either series, and am therefore cheerfully ignoring anything that may or may not have happened in that medium.

Buffy goes to LA after Angel's private little war. Not to pick up the pieces, or even to figure out whether the battle falls on the win or loss side of the tally sheet. She just can't stay away. LA is her home town in a way Sunnydale never supplanted, still the place she ran when she had nowhere else to go. She wants -- needs -- to prowl its darker corners, see for herself that her city survived.

See what Angel and Spike paid for with their lives.

It's hard to believe they're gone. She's still furious at them for not telling her Spike was back, furious that they didn't think to ask for help before calling a demon army down on LA. Buffy trusted Angel to be her second front against the First Evil. It hurts that he didn't trust her to back him up against his enemies. It hurts that Spike didn't care enough to call her in behind Angel's back.

Now they're dead.

Futures she kept like shameful secrets in the back of her mind evaporate like dew in the morning sun. She used to tell herself maybe someday she _would_ settle down with Angel, do the true love and picket fences shtick, build something that would last. But it turns out they were just daydreams, pretty little lies she never really believed in. She never really thought she'd get Angel back. But she did think he'd always be there, waiting.

Without that certainty, she's off balance. Nothing quite feels real.

Except Los Angeles. And Faith.

Faith trails her across the country like a dark mirror, chasing her own demons and debts. Eventually the tie between them will snap taut -- magic old as blood and fear and fire, far darker than the new call Willow spread across the world -- and they'll leave this city together. For now, they avoid each other with deft grace, circling the space and silence each creates around herself for those who can read the signs. There are more of those than there used to be. Death is their gift, and the years have worn Buffy's harmless blonde act threadbare for anyone willing to look with open eyes.

Then there are those who see and simply don't care.

*****

Buffy runs into Wesley at the door of Anne's shelter. It takes her a second glance to recognize him, all scruff and scars and bleak awareness of life's cruel indifference, so changed from the tweedy, twitchy novice Watcher she used to know. Was that only five years ago? It feels more like fifty.

And how the hell is he alive? Assuming he _is_ alive. Maybe he's a ghost. Or a hallucination. Or some kind of evil illusion spell.

She kicks a stray bit of gravel toward him and watches it bounce off his boot. Okay. He's probably real, as improbable as that sounds.

"Buffy," he says, gives her a nod, keeps his hands loose and open though she's placed his weapons and knows he could grab a knife in a heartbeat. (Wouldn't save him, but he'd die fighting. She likes fighters.)

"Wesley," she says. "I heard you died."

"I did," he agrees.

"Uh- _huh_." Buffy raises her eyebrows at him, a wordless invitation to elaborate.

He doesn't, quite. Just shrugs and says, "It didn't stick. I can't vouch for the state of my soul, or any debts I may have incurred, but I'm alive and human." His voice is tight, his face blank. Shutting in pain, Buffy thinks. Swallowing it down. Like if he pretends hard enough, he can keep himself from breaking.

That never works. But he's not her problem to fix.

"Well. It's a start," Buffy says. She pauses, still standing the middle of the doorway, letting lamplight and air conditioning seep out into the cloud-wrapped summer night. "What's your position on ending the world?"

"Generally speaking, I'm against it."

"Would Anne vouch for you if I let you in?"

Wesley's mouth twitches and his eyes glint darkly, like he's fighting six different expressions down. "I don't know. Shall we find out?"

Wesley, Buffy decides, is still an asshole. That's a weird sort of comfort: at least one thing hasn't changed.

She steps out onto the sidewalk, shuts the door. "Let's not and say we didn't. Anne doesn't need our kind of complications. Besides, I'd rather find something to hit than play the emotionally fraught conversation game a second time tonight."

She looks Wesley up and down. Still an asshole, but he's not a tweedy Watcher, not anymore. Not the untried idealist she ignored and Faith stomped flat. His leather jacket fits like an old friend. His hands are rough, callused, more used to weapons than books. He's light on his feet, ready to move at a whisper, the faintest hint of gut-instinct intuiting danger. The rules of their world are run, fight, or die -- and Wesley is done with running.

How interested he is in living, that's another question.

(She likes the damaged ones, too.)

He never looked at her that way, though, so she keeps it light. Businesslike. "You must have an ear to the nightlife around here. Is anybody starting to stick their heads up after what went down, maybe getting ideas about moving into the power vacuum?"

Wesley shrugs. "I don't know. Right now, I don't care either. I'd planned to speak with Anne and then get thoroughly drunk. Since you've nixed the first part of my plan I suppose I'll skip straight to the second." This time his mouth makes it all the way up into an empty smile. "Give my regards to Giles when you see him."

He turns and walks along the street toward a boring little gray car, pulls the keys out of his jacket pocket.

He's not her problem. And yet.

"Hey," Buffy says. "Would you mind some company?"

Wesley stops. Turns. Fixes her with a flat, skeptical stare.

"Not getting drunk -- me and alcohol don't mix well, at all -- but just, I don't know, company. From one member of the 'surprise, you're not dead!' club to another." She steps forward, touches their distorted reflections in the car window. "You probably didn't get along with Spike. He was the kind of person who had to grow on you. Like mold. But you and Angel were friends for a long time, and I know you lost other people too. Not just friends. Someone you loved."

"Fred."

"Yeah, the scientist. Willow liked her. We were all sorry to hear about the demon thing. And I've been there--"

"No, you haven't," Wesley says, cold and precise and utterly furious under the veneer of control.

Buffy tips her head, glares up at him. "Haven't seen people I loved sucked into a fate worse than death? You know what? Fuck you. I _sent_ Angel to hell. I watched Spike burn in the Hellmouth. So they came back for a little while, so what! So did you. So did I. That doesn't change that they died. Again. Probably forever this time. And maybe I don't want you out in my city drinking yourself to death alone. Did you think of that, huh? Did you?"

" _Your_ city," Wesley says. "Ah. I see. I should have realized from your complete and utter absence this past year that of course Los Angeles was the key to your heart."

"That's not what I meant and you know it."

"Oh?"

Buffy leans back against Wesley's car, lifts one foot from the curb to press against the hubcap. The heel of her sandal slots neat and tidy through the patterned spokes. The metal and glass are cool against her shoulders through the thin fabric of her blouse. "I grew up in LA. Just 'cause I don't live here anymore doesn't mean it's not my city. And just 'cause we're not friends doesn't mean I can't want to spend the night with you."

Something odd passes over Wesley's face.

Buffy runs her last sentence through her head. Haha, oops.

"By which I mean kill time, hang out, make sure you don't try to drive drunk," she adds hastily. It's not that she'd say no. Mini-Slayers or no mini-Slayers, she may never live long enough to finish baking, be ready to settle down. Especially now that Angel and Spike are gone. That doesn't mean she can't have good things in the meantime. Wesley doesn't look at her that way, though. She's cool with that.

But that odd something settles in along his skin and bones, makes itself at home. He takes a half-step closer, rests a hand by her shoulder, leans in.

"Are you sure that's all you mean?" he says, soft and low and just that little thrill of I-could-be-dangerous that strikes sparks down low in her body.

This is what lust looks like on Wesley, Buffy realizes. Lust and loss and anger and tension wound tight enough to choke. And she still can't tell which way he'll break. If he wants to fight. If he wants to die.

He's going to snap tonight, one way or another. She's sure of that. Nobody goes out to get guilt-tripped and then get drunk if they're not about to snap.

Buffy wants to be there when Wesley breaks.

No. That's not quite right.

She wants to break him.

"You're right," Buffy says. "That's not all. I also mean sex." She smiles brightly at the hitch in Wesley's breath, the convulsive bob of his Adam's apple under the unshaven skin of his throat. Bubbly blonde may not work much as a hunting disguise these days, but the act still has its moments. "Come on. Let's get you a drink and we'll figure out where to go from there."

She ducks under Wesley's arm, trails a hand across his chest as she goes. Waits for him to unlock the car. Slides into shotgun and sets her hand on his thigh.

He fumbles his grip on his keys, misses the ignition. Buffy waits. The second time the key slides home, metal notches and grooves disappearing one by one.

As the engine rumbles to life, she digs her nails into his jeans.

Wesley takes a deep breath and pulls out into traffic.

Buffy thinks about inching her fingers toward his hardening cock as he drives, but no. Protecting the world from the forces of evil doesn't win a free pass for reckless driving. Besides, they're heading into a ring of silence, a dark pool that spreads outward from Faith's presence in her city. She has a feeling this night has more than one chance reunion in store, and she doesn't want to spoil the show.

*****

They walk into Wesley's chosen bar and see Faith sitting near the back: black jeans, red halter-top, long brown hair loose like a dare. A row of empty shot glasses sprawls snakelike on the dull, sticky wood in front of her.

Wesley stiffens. "Did you--"

Buffy raises her hand, presses her fingers to his lips. "Did I plan to meet you? No. Did I plan for you to come here? Also no. Did I know Faith was here? Yes. Any other questions?"

"Does she know that you-- that _we're_ here," Wesley says, voice as flat and unreadable as his expression. He can't hide the tension strung tight through his body, though, can't quench the heat in his blood and bones.

Buffy smiles. "She knows."

She's always wondered about Faith and Wesley. No love lost between them. Plenty of resentment. Anger. Even hate. And yet, she used to catch him watching Faith sidelong and guilty, back in Sunnydale, before the night everything went wrong. And sometimes Faith says his name with a self-mocking twist in her voice and a regretful what-if in her eyes. And so she wonders.

This night already feels tenuous, unreal -- loss and grief and desire swirling and fizzing in her blood and brain, echoed and amplified by Wesley's desperation and need -- and she thinks, why not. If not now, when? And if not her, well, if there's anyone who knows from personal experience how to push Wesley over the edge and watch him shatter...

"Hey," she says. "What are your thoughts on threesomes?"

Wesley chokes.

He doesn't say no.

"Grab a booth. I'll talk to her, see what's the what," Buffy says. She strides toward her sister Slayer at the bar without a backward glance. Wesley will listen or he won't. She's not going to worry. Maybe tomorrow she'll feel weird, maybe she'll never talk about this again, maybe she'll beat herself up for using Wesley when he's obviously drowning in his own dark night of the soul, but tonight she doesn't care anymore.

Tonight she wants to _burn_.

She reaches out to touch Faith's shoulder, isn't surprised at all at the elbow block. It's not like she tried to hide her presence, muffle the click of her heels on the cheap tile floor. She pushes against Faith's arm, just enough force to say she could do damage if she wanted, then backs off.

"Long time no see!" she says brightly.

Faith half-turns on her barstool, fingers loose around her latest dose of vodka. "Back atcha, B. Look, don't take this personally, but can you go back to pretending we're not in the same city? I'm trying to pay my respects to Angel and his crew, and it's fuckin' awkward when you're around."

"Mmmhmm, see, I get that," Buffy says, "but... one tiny problem. You may have noticed I didn't come in here alone. Can't pay respects to someone who isn't dead."

"Watch me," Faith says, and downs her shot.

Buffy waits.

Faith orders another shot from the bartender, pushes the glass back and forth between her hands, matches Buffy's silence with silence of her own. Buffy gathers some of the empties, arranges them into a circle, then a diamond, dips her finger into one and licks the residue of alcohol off her skin.

Eventually Faith sighs. "So. You and Wesley. Since when was that a thing?"

Buffy shrugs. "It's not. But he's here, I'm here, we're both alive, and I figured, waiting hasn't gotten me much of anywhere. I'm so tired of might-have-beens. I'm tired of mourning. So maybe I should take a page from your book and take what I want, at least sometimes."

Faith bares white teeth in something that might pass for a smile. "Looks like miracles do happen. So why are you talkin' to me instead of dragging loverboy off somewhere private? Or you into exhibitionism now?"

Buffy glances back toward the corner of the room, where the bartender is setting a bottle of whiskey and a glass in front of Wesley.

"Not in general, no. But maybe for a particular person."

She touches Faith's shoulder, lets her hand trail down to the small of her back, rests her fingers on the sliver of bare skin where her shirt rides up above her low-cut jeans.

Faith shudders, just a little. "B. What."

"There's always been, I don't know, _something_ between us. And between you and him. Might as well see where it goes. Remember, it's just one night," Buffy says.

Faith follows her gaze, sees Wesley watching them over the rim of his tumbler. His face is tight with lust, his legs sprawled wide to ease the pressure obvious in his jeans.

"Well?" Buffy says.

Faith picks up her shot glass and watches the overhead lights glint and refract through the glass and vodka as she turns it around and around. She looks lost, Buffy thinks. Lost and young, and broken long ago. The world isn't kind to girls out after dark, whether or not they have the strength to fight back.

She should know.

"Can't mourn the living, you said?" Faith muses. "Yeah, all right, but there's other ways to work out shit you should've said a long time ago. And I'm good at just-one-nights. You're on."

She slams the vodka back and smiles.

*****

The drive to the nearest cheap motel is a blur of skin on skin and the heady, pounding knowledge that Wesley is watching them from the front seat. Buffy lets Faith pull her into her lap, grinds down with no need to restrain her strength, throws her head back to expose her throat and collarbones to Faith's hungry mouth.

"You like this," Faith says, hot and intimate, the words barely kissing air between her lips and Buffy's ear. "You really fucking like this, don't you. Like giving in, letting me do what I want. You like the bad boys, B. You and your little reformed monsters harem. Gonna open the doors to bad girls now? Gonna step over the line and join our club?"

Buffy shudders as Faith's hands touch skin, grope upwards under her blouse toward the catch of her bra.

She turns her head, bites Faith's ear. "Slow. Slower. Can't make him crash the car."

"Always with the rules," Faith says, but she lowers her hands, rubs circles at the small of Buffy's back, drops little sucking kisses along the line of her chin.

They rock against each other, trace teeth and tongue over arteries and veins, dig fingers into jeans and search and find and press.

The car jerks to a stop. Buffy glances forward, catches Wesley's lust-hazed eyes in the mirror. "Get a room. Or climb over the seat."

He fumbles for the door, strides off into the night.

Faith lifts her mouth from the top of Buffy's breast. "Damn, B. You think he would've fit back here with us?"

"His hands would," Buffy says.

Faith throws back her head and laughs.

Buffy pulls her hand out from Faith's jeans, runs two musk-slick fingers up Faith's neck, presses them against her mouth. Faith parts her lips, flicks her tongue against the pad of one finger, then into the gap between. Buffy pushes in, presses down, pins Faith's tongue to the base of her mouth. 

Faith throws them both sideways and down, nearly tumbling off the seat.

Buffy shoves her leg between Faith's thighs, bucks her hips. Yeah. This angle is better. Faith pushes back, rubs the seam of Buffy's jeans up against her clit, rough pressure so good, so close, almost almost _almost_. Buffy yanks her fingers out of Faith's mouth, writhes up her body, kisses her like drowning.

The car door opens.

Hands reach in, close around her shoulders, pull her back and up and Wesley slams his mouth down on hers, whiskey mingling with lust. Buffy lets him, wraps her arms around his waist as his hands trail down the thin fabric of her blouse, scrabble at the waist of her jeans, press and twist against the seam between her thighs.

"Room. Now," Buffy says.

She slides out of the car, Wesley half-pulling, Faith pushing from behind, and clamps herself to Wesley's side, shoots a heated glance back at Faith. They stumble through the parking lot, past the damp remnants of puddles and cracked asphalt, up the stairwell with its flaking paint, down the hall past dented doors and hideous brown-and-floral carpet. Buffy sucks a mark into the crook of Faith's shoulder as Wesley fumbles with the room key, moans as Faith digs her fingers into her ass, belt buckle imprinting onto Buffy's skin from the pressure between them.

Wesley breaks the key. Swears. Slams his hand against the door, turns back toward the stairs.

"Fuck that," Faith says, and kicks in the lock.

Buffy watches the door swing drunkenly into the darkened room. "Who's paying?" she gasps as Wesley laughs and tugs her over the threshold.

"Who cares?" Faith answers. She slams the door, then again as the twisted hinges refuse to stay put.

Buffy twists out of Wesley's hands -- it's just a moment, just a necessary pause -- and shoves a desk across the carpet to barricade them in.

She turns back to see Faith and Wesley staring at each other, heat and challenge and an intimate history of pain locked into a closed circuit despite the distance between them. She touches Faith's hip, catches her eyes, glances toward Wesley and the bed behind him, wide enough for three despite the sagging mattress and the fraying comforter.

They move forward as one, pin Wesley between them. Faith reaches up, runs her hands through his hair, pulls off his glasses and tosses them onto the nightstand. Buffy reaches down, grinds the heel of her palm against his cock like a promise, trails her fingernails up his chest in little teasing spirals as she unbuttons his shirt with her other hand.

His feet seem to have deserted his control, but he brings his hands up, runs one through Buffy's hair, lets the strands fan out and drop back onto her neck. He lifts her hair again.

Faith leans sideways and bites the exposed skin.

Heat and memories crash down like drowning. Buffy shudders, can almost feel blood seeping out the corners of Faith's mouth, trickling down her skin. But there's no puncture, no tear, just pressure and warm, wet tongue, and Faith's hands shoving her away from Wesley, back toward the bed, steadying her when her knees hit the edge of the mattress.

Buffy sits down.

Faith reaches behind herself and pops the button on Wesley's jeans, reeling him in. Buffy reaches up, tugs until his bends down, kisses him while she slips his open shirt off his shoulders. Faith shoves him onto the bed beside Buffy, sinks down onto her knees, yanks his zipper down and smiles sweetly at his hiss of indrawn breath.

Buffy presses her hand against his cock again, feels his pulse pounding like his heart's about to burst.

He's wearing boxers, she notes in the second before Faith strips them off with brutal efficiency, tossing them over her shoulder to follow his jeans and shoes. His cock springs upwards, slaps against Buffy's fingers.

She squeezes, just a little, just to hear him gasp.

"Not yet," Faith says. "Make him wait for it. Anticipation, y'know?"

"Yeah," Buffy breathes. "Yeah."

She stands, holds Wesley in place with an open palm when he tries to follow. Then she steps back into Faith's waiting arms. They study Wesley together.

He's not a pretty man, Buffy thinks. Not classically handsome either, or even memorably ugly. Just an ordinary face, an ordinary body, no reason for anyone to look twice if he passed them on the street. Except people would look twice these days. Camouflage only works if you work on it, make yourself unremarkable, play into harmless stereotypes. Wesley's playing into the wrong ones, with his scruff and sweat and the thousand-yard blankness in his eyes.

And if she can see that, obviously he's not distracted enough.

Buffy twists to face Faith, slides her hands up to the nape of her neck, tugs at the loose tie of her halter-top. Faith raises her arms, sinks down as Buffy pulls, shimmies herself free and tosses her hair behind her. Buffy kisses her breasts as she stands again, a promise for later.

Wesley's hand is wrapped around his cock, thumb rubbing up and down the heavy vein as he watches.

Faith catches Buffy's eye, tips her head toward Wesley, grins.

"Yeah," Buffy says, and raises her own arms.

They draw it out, amateur striptease. It's not graceful -- buttons and boots take time to undo, and their clothes aren't fakes held together with Velcro -- but it's fun and they make up for the uneven pace with kisses and touches and moans, daring each other to ridiculous heights of exaggeration. Buffy tries not to think how much of her act is real. She is not going to have a sexual identity crisis tonight. Not in this city, not with these people, not so soon after so many deaths.

She trails her teeth along Faith's hipbone, tastes sweat and breathes musk, feels neatly trimmed curls brush against her cheek. She wants to taste more.

So she does. She shoves Faith onto the bed beside Wesley, crawls up to kneel astride her legs, bends to lick and suck and bite her way down from between her breasts to her navel. Faith squirms upward toward the other side of the bed, tugs Buffy down to lie on top of her, presses Buffy's face between her thighs.

She's never done this before, but she knows what she likes done to her. That's somewhere to start. She opens her mouth, licks a broad, flat path up from Faith's entrance to the root of her clit, then settles her lips around wet, musky skin and crisp dark hair and sucks. She twists, makes more space for herself, brings her hand up to trace two fingers beneath her chin. She slides them in, presses down, waits for Faith to squeeze and grind upward in response.

Buffy flicks her tongue.

Faith _writhes_.

"What-- the fuck-- you waitin' for?" Faith pants when Buffy pulls back to catch her own breath. "Three people in this room, Wes. Gonna sit out all night?"

The bed lurches as Wesley rolls to his feet. Buffy tracks him absently as he moves behind her, most of her attention on her fingers and mouth and the steady grind of Faith's hips. He's not an enemy. She knows that. But she's naked, he's halfway to a stranger, and she can't stop the prickle of her skin and the tension along her spine.

He kisses her. Presses his wet mouth to the crease her bra strap left in her skin. Slides sideways to the knobs of her spine, still too prominent despite a year away from Sunnydale and the crushing weight of the world.

Buffy bares her teeth, growls, rides out the quiver that sets off in Faith's thighs.

She doesn't want his pity. She let Angel go years ago, even if she never wanted to admit that. She grieved for Spike and moved on. She's not the one who just lost everything. She's not the one come back to life only to find her world in ashes.

She shoves backward, bumps her hips into his even as she renews her assault on Faith. Wesley's hands clench around her waist. She seals her lips around Faith's clit, hollows her cheeks and sucks, lets Faith set her own pace, grinding up and teasing herself against Buffy's tongue. Wesley slips a finger between her own legs, slides up and in and she _twists_ , manages the barest graze of his knuckle against her clit.

He pulls out. Plastic tears. Condom, probably. She's glad he thought of that.

He doesn't bother with anything fancy, just pushes in, threads one hand up and around to grope for her clit. The bed creaks and sways underneath them, Wesley's thrusts forcing Buffy into Faith and pulling her away in syncopation to his rhythm.

"Look-- at you," Faith says with ragged breath, hands clamped on Buffy's head. "Some champion. Wanted to save-- your sweetheart. Wanted-- to save the world. But you-- couldn't-- even save-- yourself."

"Shut up," Wesley says. He thrusts harder. Buffy slips; her teeth graze across Faith's clit. Faith _keens_. Her nails break skin at the nape of Buffy's neck. Buffy's breath comes fast and short. Her thighs shake.

"No," Faith says through the aftershocks and the thrust of Buffy's fingers, mirroring the thrust of Wesley's cock. "I won't-- shut up. You can't-- pretend it didn't-- didn't happen. Fred died. Angel-- died. Gunn died. Everyone-- but you. And you're just tryin'-- to act like no-- like nothing's changed."

"Shut _up_ ," Wesley shouts.

His fingers squeeze Buffy's clit. His cock shoves her forward, mashes her into Faith. Faith's hands fling wide, scrabble at the comforter as she arches from the bed, spasms around Buffy's lips and tongue.

Buffy falls over her own edge, feels Wesley fall with her, pulsing inside as she shakes apart.

They lie still together for a long moment. Then Faith groans and kicks Wesley's thigh, tugs Buffy's face up and brushes a finger across her sticky mouth. "Okay, fuck afterglow, I'm gonna get cramps if we don't move."

Wesley pulls out, disposes of his condom. Faith vanishes into the bathroom, runs water in the sink. Buffy does her best to clean her face and neck on a bleach-spotted pillowcase, watches Wesley from the corner of her eye as he starts to gather their discarded clothes.

His hands are shaking, still. There's something jagged and explosive behind his eyes, in the set of his shoulders.

Ready to break.

She stands, carries his glasses over, places them in his hand and curls his lax fingers around them.

"We all lost Angel," she says. "It's okay to be angry. It's okay to mourn." In the bathroom, the sound of running water shuts off. Faith eases back through the door.

"That's not--" Wesley says. Stops. Swallows. "I don't--"

Faith sets her hand against his shoulder, gentle, like he's a wild thing about to bolt. "Wes. Let go. We'll catch you."

He breaks.

*****

When it's over, the moment passed, tension seeps back into the room like the restless humid heat of summer. They finish cleaning -- sweat, tears, blood, other fluids -- and dress carefully, as if anyone who sees them leaving won't guess the gist of what they've done.

Wesley straightens Buffy's collar, brushes Faith's hair behind her ear. It's a muted thank you, accompanied by the shadow of a smile. This was only one night, after all. He's not their problem to fix, even if they were in that business. They won't stay in this city. He won't leave, won't let himself escape the weight of his loss. He'll have to pick up his shattered pieces on his own.

Like Faith did, in prison. Like Buffy did, again and again and again.

Faith breaks the silence before it curdles solid. "Second chances don't come cheap. Better not waste yours," she says to Wesley. He nods. "Good. Catch you later, B." She pushes the desk aside, uses it to prop the broken door wide open, vanishes into the grungy dimness of the hall.

Wesley gives Buffy a long, searching look.

"I put the Council's number in your phone," Buffy says. "The real one, that gets right to one of the Sunnydale crew, not the offices and answering system and all that. Call if you think something's going down."

"I will," Wesley says.

She's not sure she believes him, but it's his life. His city, now, even if Los Angeles will always be her childhood home. She'll leave it in his hands.

He digs through his wallet, pulls out a few twenties. She does the same. They leave three each on the nightstand, for the stains and the door.

Wesley pulls out his keys, then turns in the doorway. "Do you need a ride?" The metal jangles, clinks and chimes against a broken hinge.

Buffy looks out the window toward the mingled light of streetlamps, windows, cars. Angel's city. Wesley's city. Her city still, for one more night.

She can't pick up all the pieces Angel scattered in the wake of his war. But she can say goodbye.

"No," she says. "I'm good. But thanks."

She watches him leave in silence.


End file.
